


Sweet Things

by todisturbtheuniverse



Series: Into the Storm and Rout [21]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light BDSM, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-'Tough Love'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: The party stops in Val Royeaux for an afternoon. Iron Bull makes some purchases.Inspired by party banter: "Now I just need some hot milk and some of those Orlesian guimauves to put in it," Iron Bull says."Hey, what you do with this 'cocoa' is up to you. I don't need to hear about it," Varric replies.You definitely don't need to hear about it, Varric.





	Sweet Things

**Author's Note:**

> My 'Orlesian' is rusty; thank you for enduring it.

Every now and then, they pass through Val Royeaux.

Sometimes, it's late afternoon and they're not in any particular hurry. The weather is bad and the road ahead is long, so they stop over in the city for the night. A local inn is happy enough to make room for the party, delighted to have the fame—or infamy, depending upon who you ask—of hosting the Inquisitor. And they get a rare few hours to wander the streets and look at the wares without much urgency. The local shopkeeps all wave as they pass, eager to show off their wares.

All except a particular furniture store, which Katrina is just as happy to hurry past. She's fine to browse the catalogue at a distance now, thank you, and order whatever's necessary instead of appearing in person. Spare both her and the shopkeeper the embarrassment, and deprive Bull of the glee.

"A new staff for you, Inquisitor?" a robed woman calls, gesturing. "I have new stock in!"

"You did just _make_ a new staff," Bull rumbles beside her. He strikes an impressive figure in the downpour, forgoing any covering that would keep the rain off his chest. Katrina admires him sidelong.

"Oh, but I'm always looking for new techniques," she says. "A quick look wouldn't hurt. You go on," she adds. "I'll catch up a bit later."

Bull considers it; his eye slides over to the corner of the market where another woman is apparently browsing a fruit stand, but if Bull is watching her, then Katrina knows better. One of Leliana's, probably, her eyes watching out for their safety even from afar. But Bull will be weighing the merits of this anonymous scout against his own capabilities, wanting to be certain that she'll help out if Katrina gets into trouble.

"Yell if there's something that needs killing," he says, deciding in the scout's favor.

"You'll hear me," she reassures, with a bit of a coy smile to twist the words. He chuckles, appreciative, and leans down to kiss her before ambling away.

She turns to the shopkeep. "What do you have for me, Guinevere?"

The woman beams, hurrying forward to take her by the arm—not the least put off by the scene that just unfolded in front of her. "I heard you speaking of _techniques_ ," she says. "Well, my dear Inquisitor, I have a new material in that I think you'll love…"

She passes a happy hour in the shop. Orlesians are always eager to pass off something _fashionable_ as _practical_ , but Guinevere manages an appropriate amount of both, boasting pretty but practical designs, both on staves and armor. Katrina loads up a few new fabrics into her pack, planning to experiment whenever they return to Skyhold. Then she pays, kisses Guinevere on the cheek, and goes back out into the rain to search for Bull.

Her scout is still lingering in the little bazaar, keeping a careful watch. Katrina knows better than to ruin her disguise by addressing her, so she just tucks her cloak a little more closely around her, hood kept up, and heads off in the direction Bull last went.

She finds Varric first, bartering with a bookseller in an alley filled with at least a dozen of them, all with little carts and attached overhangs to keep off the drizzle. She taps him on the shoulder.

"See where Bull went?" she asks.

"Off to the Pink Market," he replies, with a smile and shake of his head. "Apparently there's some kind of festival over there today. Couldn't turn it down."

"Shit weather for it," she says. "Thanks."

There are a few markets in town, but the referenced square turns out a large number of baked goods. Her mouth waters at the thought. It's been one of those days without a proper meal, mostly hard bread and salted meat and cheese on horseback, and she could definitely down a pastry. Or six.

The market isn't as colorful as its name today, the streamers bedraggled and damp from the rain, but there's still a fair crowd. Katrina stands on tiptoe and searches over the heads of chattering market-goers for Bull. It doesn't take much work; he stands at least a head above the next-tallest person, and the other shoppers give him a bit of a berth.

"Pardon-moi," she says, and starts elbowing through the crowd to meet him. No one gives her any particular consideration; she just looks like another Marcher with an unfashionable cloak and a poor accent, probably, not like the Inquisitor. She takes a moment to relish the anonymity, even when someone near smacks her in the face with a careless gesture.

"I heard from a reliable source that you have _guimauves_ ," Bull is saying, with supreme interest, to the small man keeping shop.

He pushes his spectacles up his nose—a little bit of a nervous gesture, Katrina thinks. "All sorts, monsieur!" he says—squeaks, more like, but that could just be his voice. "Mint, strawberry, sugar-spun...what is your taste?"

"What's a _guimauve_?" Katrina asks, sidling up beside Bull.

The shopkeep turns an astonished eye on her. "Has the lady never tasted a guimauve? Here, now, this must be rectified at once! Gustave!" He swings around, addressing the boy at the back of the kiosk, who jumps to attention. "Un échantillon, s'il vous plaît! La rose pour madame!"

Amused, Katrina watches the boy rush around the booth, assembling a little plate. Bull slings an arm around her shoulders, which she likes very much; even with the cloak between them, she can feel the warmth of his body, somehow maintained despite the rain.

Gustave offers out the plate. Little fluffy squares of pink-hued...something...are speared at the end of toothpicks.

"Try it," Bull encourages.

She picks one up and pops it in her mouth. The texture surprises her first—fluffy, airy, but somehow chewy, too—and then the taste sneaks up on her: sugary, yes, but with a faint taste of rose.

"Oh," she says, delighted. "These are delicious!"

The shopkeep beams at her. "Merci, Madame!"

"We'll take a box," Bull says, fishing for his coin purse. "Assortiment, s'il vous plait." Katrina envies his accent greatly; he sounds as if he's been speaking Orlesian his entire life.

All indication of nervousness gone, the shopkeep bustles around to assemble their box. Gustave, smiling shyly, points to the sample platter and mimes eating. Katrina grins and takes another.

"You've been busy," she says through a mouthful of guimauve; Bull's pack looks a little fuller than it did an hour ago.

"Not often you get through Val Royeaux on a _festival_ day," he says with relish. "You wouldn't believe all the...ah, but it's a surprise."

She can see by the look on his face that he never did have any intention of telling her what was in the pack, that he's only teasing her by pretending he nearly let it slip, but she doesn't mind in the slightest. She is content to wait. Nay, she is simply _content_ , a wondrous and lovely thing to be in light of the world's troubles _._

The shopkeep presents one large white box, with a smaller on top, both wrapped in bright pink ribbon for contrast. "A chocolate rose on the house," he says, with a wink.

Bull passes over the coin. "Vous êtes trop gentil. Merci."

"Bonne journée!" The shopkeeper waves after them as they move off through the crowd. Katrina stays close to Bull, making use of the space that people leave around him.

"I know I could use a real meal, but I'm tempted to eat every last one of those guimauves instead," Katrina says. "And the chocolate rose, besides."

"Ah, ah, ah. Those are for later." His voice lowers suggestively.

"Well, I _do_ need a meal then," she says, perfectly nonchalant, though her heart picks up a bit. It seems silly that, after months and months—damn near a year—such an indication from him can _still_ cause her insides to flop around so much, but she certainly wouldn't trade it.

"The innkeeper claimed the stew would be good tonight. Think that would work?"

"Perfectly well."

They meander back through the city in the lessening drizzle, stopping to look through shop windows when something catches their attention. By the time they've reached the inn, the rain has stopped entirely, and Katrina pushes her hood back from her face with relief.

"I see you found him," Varric calls out from a table across the tavern, waving. Cassandra does not look up from her book, though Katrina is certain she is aware that they've arrived.

"Just where you said he'd be," Katrina says, taking a seat. The scent of food hits her; a platter with a fresh loaf of bread on it is already at the table, and she takes a piece immediately.

They speak of inconsequential things through dinner. Cassandra can't be persuaded to look up from her book until the last, when she slams it shut and glares at Varric.

"Must you always end on a cliffhanger?" she demands, any earlier hesitation to admit to her reading habits forgotten.

"Keeps readers interested," Varric says, ladling more stew into his bowl. "They're not all as eager to keep reading as you, Seeker. They need a hook."

She turns more fully toward him, her hand resting on the book. "When—"

"Maker, I just finished writing that one a few weeks ago! It'll be a while until the next."

"You mistook my question, which is hardly surprising, considering that you didn't let me ask it," she says, very peevishly. "When will the Guardsman realize that he has been deceived? Surely he can't believe that the Knight-Captain is guilty of this atrocious crime."

Varric chuckles. "You'll have to wait for the next one for that, Seeker."

She gives a growl of frustration. It's always impressed Katrina that Varric is not the least intimidated by this; in his shoes, she would be very fearful. "We may well all be dead before you write the next one," she says, exasperated.

"Such pessimism! Our dear Inquisitor will see us all alive at the end of this, I'm sure, and then you can badger me all you like."

"You two may continue your literary discussion," Katrina groans, pushing back from the table, "but I'm for bed."

"As wise as you are holy," Varric says, grinning. "I'm turning in too, so your questions will have to wait for the morning."

Her mouth thins. "I _will_ have answers, one way or another. Horseback is as good a place as any."

"Is it? With that enormous animal prancing around distracting you?"

Katrina rolls her eyes; Varric is clearly going to goad Cassandra until she won't let him leave the conversation, and Katrina is happy to leave him to a bed of his making. "Good night," she says, pointedly.

"Enjoy the talk," Bull adds helpfully, and they both quit the tavern, taking the stairs up to their room.

It's well-appointed, better than the cramped accommodations they sometimes find at roadside inns, better than camping in a damp forest. There's a wide bed, and a nice little window, and even a desk to write on, with a chair besides. She turns as Bull closes the door behind him.

"Is it later yet?" she asks, trying to sound casual.

He chuckles. "Impatient?"

"Just curious."

He drops his pack in the chair and begins to rummage through it, more slowly than he needs to, in Katrina's opinion. Eventually, he produces a box. There's a fine silk bow wrapped around it, somewhat shimmery in the low light from the lamps. He holds it out to her.

"What's the occasion?" she asks, but she takes the box, her curiosity more piqued than ever. "Have I forgotten a holiday?"

His eye rolls. "Watch the sass."

She ducks her head, but she smiles, too. He likes it, she well knows, that she's gotten a little more combative of late. A little more disobedient.

"Not sass," she says, though that's a bit of a lie. "Just wondering if I missed the opportunity to get you a present, is all."

"No occasion," he says. "Just open it." He moves his pack to the floor and sits down in the chair, which only creaks a little.

She pulls the end of the golden bow, which comes easily undone, and drapes it around her neck for safekeeping. She pulls the lid off with one hand. There's a great deal of tissue paper within, so she begins fishing through it. Beneath, there's a length of cloth of some kind, nearly the same shimmery golden as the bow, so thin and fine she's afraid to touch it and snag it with her roughed-up hands.

She finds a thin strap that seems a little less likely to fray and pulls it from the box entirely. It takes a moment to really take in the fine thing she's looking at, to understand its purpose, and then—

"Oh," she says, very softly, almost afraid that if she speaks too harshly that it will come apart in her hands. "It's beautiful."

It's a slip, if such a short, sheer, impractical garment could really be called a _slip_. She doubts that it is. It seems like it serves merely a decorative purpose. She glances sidelong at Bull to confirm.

He tips his head toward the dressing screen. "Put it on."

She ducks behind the screen, going along. They're usually a great deal more practical than this; fine clothing doesn't really have a place on a battlefield or a muddy road. But it _is_ beautiful, and she's curious to see how it looks on her, so she strips eagerly out of her clothes and slides it carefully over her head.

She may as well be wearing nothing, since that is about as much as it conceals; the neckline plunges so deep that her breasts are very much in danger of spilling out the front, even standing very straight. The sheer fabric doesn't hide her nipples. And the floaty skirt comes just barely past the top of her thighs. She feels, strangely, more exposed than if wearing nothing at all.

She takes her hair down out of its bun and starts to braid it instead, pulling the strands tight. Every motion brushes the fine cloth against her skin, eliciting shivers.

When she steps out from behind the screen, Bull is already looking her way. Something softens in his eye as he takes her in. She tries not to breathe too heavily; she thinks too hard a breath would reveal whatever the slip _does_ conceal.

"Your tits look fantastic," he says appreciatively, and she exhales an airy laugh. "They always look fantastic, but sometimes, they deserve to get dressed up."

"Do they," she says, smiling.

He tosses a pillow on the ground beside him. "Come over here."

This much is easy; she closes the distance between them and kneels, thighs spread. The skirt raises up a little, very much at risk of exposing her entirely.

He has something else in his hands, something just as golden, but less sheer. "I hope you're not tired," he says, with feigned concern. "We can call it a night if you really _do_ want to go to bed."

"You know very well I only said that to get away from Cassandra and Varric. They'll argue all night if you let them."

He raises an eyebrow down at her, some of the tenderness in his gaze cooling.

"I'm not tired," she clarifies, and she certainly isn't, when he looks at her like that. There's a thrill in her blood, the heady combination of lust, anticipation, and a little fear. She's not tired in the least.

"Good." He leans down, and she realizes what the golden cloth is for; it matches her attire, and it blocks out the light perfectly well when doubled. He ties it around her head neatly, blindfolding her, and sits back again. "Hands behind your back."

She obeys; the cloth pulls across her front, exposing a little more skin to the air.

"Perfect," he says. The appreciative note has re-entered his voice. "Now, don't move. I'll be back in a moment."

She swallows her protests and stays still. He stands, walks to the door, and leaves through it, shutting it behind him again.

Probably just trying to wind her up. And damn him, it _works_. There's something about this very revealing scrap of clothing, combined with the darkness of being blindfolded, that already has her a little aroused. She doesn't press her thighs together, though she wants to. He didn't bind her hands, but she doesn't move them. They stay clasped behind her back, fingers clutching the opposite wrist, and she waits in the darkness for him to return.

It feels like a long wait. Her knees have just started to make themselves known when the door creaks open again and closes. His footsteps approach, something is placed on the desk, and then he sits again.

"Rooms on either side of us are vacant," he says. "You'll still need to be quiet, though."

Wretched man. He knows she has no trouble keeping her noises in check until he slyly points out that some passerby might hear her.

Above her, something clinks. Dishes, maybe. She doesn't turn her head toward the noise, not until he reaches down and places a finger beneath her chin, tipping her face up. His hand is pleasantly warm.

His thumb rubs across her lower lip, a soft caress. "Open your mouth," he says.

She obeys, expecting him to wet his fingers, but instead he places something on her tongue. Something sugary and light, but suffused with an odd, dark bitterness.

"Try to guess what it is," he says, the hand that had been beneath her chin now stroking her throat instead, which elicits another shiver.

She closes her mouth. Whatever it is nearly melts on her tongue; she thinks it was dipped in some liquid before Bull fed it to her. She savors it, trying to recognize the texture, the taste—beneath the sugar and the bitterness, there's a note of something else, something she recognizes—

She swallows. "Rose," she says. "It was a rose guimauve. And…" The sugary taste distracted her, but she recognizes the aftertaste on her tongue. "Cocoa," she says, smiling.

"Want another?"

She nods, mouth opening eagerly. There's something very strange and intimate about this, as she kneels at his feet and he feeds her these airy delicacies, in all sorts of flavors. She savors every one; they're all complemented by the bitter taste of the cocoa. Her mouth feels sticky with sweetness, and his fingers are, too. After a few more guimauves, he lets her lick his fingers clean.

And just like that, the intimacy of being fed guimauves turns into burning arousal; she tries to show him by the press of her tongue on his fingers, which he eventually pulls away.

"Up," he says.

She's forgotten about her knees, but they make themselves known to her again soon enough, complaining as she rises to her feet. She stretches a little on her toes, easing the cramped muscles in her legs.

"Hand."

She offers it out in the direction of his voice, and he leads her across the room; then he stoops down, picks her up, and tosses her to the bed. She laughs as she lands, the wind a little knocked out of her.

She stops laughing almost immediately, though, when he drags her to the edge of the bed and begins to lay kisses up the inside of her thigh. She snaps her mouth shut and turns her head to the side and closes her eyes, trying very hard not to make any noise.

"You're shivering." He says it in a low voice that seems to go straight to her core, in more ways than one; she can feel his breath against her cunt, warm and soft. He leans forward that last little distance and presses his lips to her in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. She squirms, but only a little.

He hasn't tied up her hands. She only realizes this because she has no idea what to do with them, especially with his tongue now working slow circles around her clit, not quite touching but transferring pleasure by proximity, anyway. And _desire_ , not to be forgotten. That's being transferred, too.

She raises her arms, clasping her hands above her head, where they'd usually be. Out of the way. That's what's best, since she can make no other real decision in this state.

One hand is wrapped around her thigh; the other, though, reaches up to cup her breast, fingers stroking over both fabric and skin, as if to reward her for keeping her hands out of the way. She arches up into the touch, barely swallowing down another whine. His tongue strokes steadily at her clit now—another few seconds, and she'll—

But he knows her body very well, and he stops all his attentions as soon as she gives any sign that she's about to come. His mouth returns, wetter now, to the insides of her thighs, pressing kiss after kiss to her flesh. She's quivering, but she's no longer right at the edge.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Let's see how many times you can do that."

He starts again, slower this time. It's the most exquisite, best torture; it feels better than most anything as long as she forgets that he's going to deny her again, which he does after a few minutes, leaning back, and then up and over her. When he bends down to kiss her, his lips taste of her arousal, and her mouth is still sticky-sweet from the guimauves.

He pulls back from the kiss. "This time," he says, the rumble of his voice passing through her like an ocean wave, "I want you to tell me to stop when you're close."

Torture, yes. _Exquisite_ torture, but torture nonetheless.

"I will," she says, though it feels like it takes a great effort.

He kisses her again with approval and kneels back down between her legs, getting a handful of her hips this time to hold her to the bed. It begins again, a slow, steady licking that passes over her clit almost as if on accident, and then more surely, teasing at it with the tip of his tongue. She lasts only a few minutes before she has to breathe out, "Stop," and it's the hardest word she's ever had to say. It feels that way, at least.

He stops, strokes her thighs, kisses her skin, praises her. And then he begins again. She loses count of the number of times he brings her to the edge and denies her. Sometimes it doesn't take very long at all; sometimes it's a matter of many minutes. She's trembling all over now, afraid that she'll come as soon as his tongue touches her again, and that's when he stops entirely.

She hears him stand, hears a buckle being undone, but it all seems to come from very far away. "Sit up," he says.

She barely manages it. His hands slide beneath the slip and pull it off, gently, over her head, but he doesn't remove the blindfold.

"Turn over. All fours on the bed."

She will come undone as soon as he's inside her, she's sure, and then the game will be lost, but she moves to obey, anyway, bracing herself on her arms.

He doesn't tease her any longer. He presses close behind her and rocks into her, and she is still painfully close, but she does not come. It's a different sensation now, distracting enough that she has eased safely back from the edge, but the ache of _want_ is very nearly unbearable, and she has not made a noise except to tell him to stop all this time, and it seems like she might just burst from the pressure of all of it.

"We'll go slow," he says— _teases_ , more like, because he knows exactly what he's done to her. He grasps her hips for purchase, and every thrust _is_ slow and languid, stroking against a very nice spot inside of her. It's just adding to her torment, to her desperation for release, another dimension layered on top of the first.

His fingers press to her core, just above where they're joined, and she says "Stop" before he can do more than briefly touch her.

"Ah, ah, ah. That's not how this works. I know you're not close enough yet." He continues, fingers circling her lightly.

She bites her lips, eyes closed tight behind the blindfold, and lets him. It's pleasure bordering on pain, but she's still desperate for the climax just out of her reach, and she makes it maybe another minute before she gasps out, "Stop, stop, _please_ —"

He takes his hand away. She hadn't noticed that he'd stopped moving inside her, but he resumes again now, slow, long motions. She's crying silently from the agony of it, warm, wet tears soaking into the blindfold.

He gives her a minute. A minute of blessed relief with the dull pounding of her swollen clit between her legs just barely receding, his cock stroking inside her, not allowing the sensation to die down fully. And then he begins to touch her again, unforgiving, building her up, his fingers slipping easily between her soaking wet folds—

"Stop," she pleads, "stop, stop—"

But he doesn't stop this time; his merciless fingers press a little harder and she shudders with her climax, burying her face in the sheets to smother her desperate whimpers. He doesn't let up, though she feels the pulse of his release inside her. His fingers continue to stroke her, wringing every built-up drop of pleasure from her until it feels a long while later, her body limp and boneless, shivering in the aftermath.

He pulls out of her with a low groan and reaches down to untie the blindfold. "All good?"

She manages a nod, her eyes narrowed against even the dim light in the room. "Feel a bit like a lake, though."

He laughs, cheerful and still a little out of breath, and gets up to find a towel. She lays back on the bed and doesn't move an inch further, still shivering.

"You're awful," she says as they clean up. "Has anyone told you?"

"Not in such a flattering tone," he says with an easy grin. "Under the covers, or you're going to get cold."

She slides beneath the sheets and quilt, propped up against the headboard, and he returns to the desk. The dishes clink again. When he saunters back over to the bed—and he _does_ saunter, the way he always does after a job well done—he has two mugs in hand, chipped but serviceable. There are a few guimauves poking out of the top of each.

He offers one of the mugs out to her, and she smells the cocoa, strong and bitter, beneath the light, sugary scent of the guimauves. "Think you can hold it?"

She manages, with both hands. "Thought you were out of cocoa. I've been nagging you about it for weeks."

He settles into bed beside her. "Varric's got a supplier in Val Royeaux. He finally restocked today."

She sips. The sugar of the guimauves has filtered, a little, into the rich, dark cocoa, turning it just the slightest bit sweet. She sighs, closes her eyes.

"I feel very spoiled," she says, a little drowsily.

"Awful's not so bad, hmm?"

She takes another sip. "Awful's fair wonderful. But I _am_ going to need more of these guimauves. With cocoa. Preferrably."

He chuckles again; she smiles, too, leaning against his shoulder. He wraps his free arm around her, pulling her very close, and she relishes the contact, the steadily sweetening drink—all of it.

There's no telling how many good days, how many sweet things, are left to them. She savors every one.


End file.
